Bad Sister(84)

That struck Connie as strange. Devon had been plucked out of thin air as the best place to relocate? Where his stepsister had also been relocated only months beforehand? That was one hell of a coincidence. Could Miles have had anything to do with it? She shook the thought away for the moment.

‘How do you manage your anger now? Still with fire?’

He relaxed back in his chair. Connie waited while he seemed to consider the question – was he working out how he should answer, give a response that he thought Connie would want to hear? He cracked his knuckles. Then spoke.

‘I don’t get as angry. Now. Most of the reasons for my anger are no longer a problem.’

The way he said that sent a shiver rippling across her skin. He’d meant Steph, she was sure. And now Steph was dead he didn’t have to hold on to the anger. Connie didn’t feel like probing any further. It was unlikely Brett had started the fire. His obsession with fire had given Steph the perfect opportunity to blame him; he was just a confused, hurting ten-year-old kid who’d witnessed his dad die in the flames. He’d been primed, and was at that point easily manipulated. Steph had been a very resourceful sixteen-year-old. Clever. Devious.

Which begged the question, why wouldn’t she have tried every other avenue before killing herself and Dylan?

‘You sent letters to Jenna when you were in the secure home. Did she reply?’ Connie wasn’t sure any more that Brett had ever written to Steph, she may well have lied about that too.

‘I started off sending them to Jenna, but she only ever replied a few times. Later, when I was beginning to recall the actual events, I wrote … well, more angry letters I guess. But I never sent them.’

‘Okay, so the letters you sent said what?’

‘Mostly begging for her to come and visit me. I’d lost my dad, wasn’t expecting her to visit, so I only had Jenna. I used to tell her stuff, too, like what it was like in the home, the therapy I had, that sort of thing.’

‘Why didn’t you send the ones that were angry? I’d have thought you’d want her to know your feelings, that you were remembering certain things more clearly about the fire?’

‘I wrote those letters as part of my therapy. We all had to write to our victim, or someone who’d been affected by our crime. Well, almost all of us. There were some who got away with all that, like Flint – jammy bugger.’

‘I see.’ Connie knew that was a part of some of the rehabilitation programmes in prison. So it was entirely possible that Brett had never written to Steph and certainly not while she’d been in Totnes. Miles had been right.

She was about to bring his session to a close – get rid of him in time for her client – but the niggle that had become a regular sensation in her mind attached itself to something Brett’d said.

‘Who is Flint?’

Brett’s eyes narrowed, and for a split second, Connie thought she saw panic flash across his face.

‘Just a lad I was inside with in the YOI.’

‘A friend?’

‘I guess. I never really connected with anyone much. But he had my back. Tried to help me integrate when I first got put in there. It was a big jump, secure home to YOI. It could be brutal in that place. Flint had respect from a lot of the inmates, and he was a bit like me, we both had a thing for fire – that’s why he had the nickname, Flint. In return for his protection, I helped him with his programme work. I’d made the most of my time, you see – took every opportunity to learn, to better myself. I loved the education programmes and I enjoyed teaching others when I could.’

‘Why didn’t he have to do the victim letters, though?’

‘He had this brain disorder or something, which meant he couldn’t write things down. All he had to do was tell the facilitator stuff, one-to-one, and I’d help with some writing for the in-cell work after sessions.’

Connie sat up straight. ‘Brain disorder?’

‘Yeah. He got a bad bang to the head when he was a kiddy. An accident of some sort, can’t remember what he said now. But it left him with lasting damage. I mean, he was okay, up there,’ Brett tapped a finger against his temple, ‘he just couldn’t write things down the same.’

Her mouth dried.

‘What do you mean, he couldn’t write things down the same?’

‘Weird as hell it was. Like it was nothing to him, he could do it perfectly.’

Connie’s pulse raced, knowing what was coming, but asking anyway.

‘What could he do perfectly?’

‘Mirror writing. He wrote everything backwards.’





CHAPTER EIGHTY-FIVE


Connie


As soon as Brett left and she’d watched him from the window until he disappeared from view, Connie picked up the phone and dialled the station.

Someone she didn’t recognise answered and said DI Wade and DS Mack were out on a call. Damn. There was no point leaving a message, she’d phone again when she got home. Connie’s hands shook and her pulse rate was doubled, as if she’d had twenty cups of coffee. She’d tried not to show any reaction when Brett spoke about Flint’s condition, attempting instead to sound interested in the phenomenon, rather than in Flint himself. But when Brett went on to tell her that Flint had been released prior to him, Connie was sure her face must’ve given away her shock. She was now convinced that the writing on the toilet mirror must’ve been done by Flint. He and Brett were in this together – Brett had let Flint in when he left after their session. It was obvious. Although the ‘why’ was less so.